


Trolley Tracks

by brook456



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Plot Relevant Blood, Somewhat OOC premise, Spoilers - Journal 3, Utilitarian Tragedy, excessive blood, implied self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8980357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brook456/pseuds/brook456
Summary: Stanford Pines makes the moral choice, and everyone suffers.





	1. The Decision

**Author's Note:**

> First time doing this so please feel free to offer suggestions/constructive criticism. Comments/kudos will probably make me update faster.
> 
> Note that it starts (and diverges from canon) near the end of Dipper and Mabel vs. the Future, after Ford and Dipper have crash landed but before the events leading up to Weirdmaggedon.

Like everything, it started with a deal. The nature of it didn’t matter, only its effects—or at least it hadn’t—not then. It would come back to haunt him later of course, in the long hours of the night: dreams that could easily have been creations of a demon’s mind, dreams that could have simply been his own. There was no longer much of a distinction between the two.

Neither did it even matter which deal it was. You could go all the way back to that original pact, the six fingers curled around a clawed hand, the wretched stink of Faustian folly and the tongues of blue flame that didn’t burn, not yet; or you could say it was the deal made about half a minute before he picked himself off the ground and ended the whole affair. Ended, perhaps, being too final a word, but at least postponed—he had to believe he had done something. Pointlessness, after all of that, would be too much to bear.

He had picked himself off of the ground, that was the first thing he could remember, besides the pain, familiar friend. It was not much really—he was more stunned than anything, more confused than hurt. There were the usual scrapes and bruises of course, an ache in his leg that told him he’d limp for a couple of days, and perhaps the quite literal metallic ringing in his skull, but that was all—a rather light sentence for hurtling out of the sky on a crashing ship. A crashing…! He recalled the present situation with sudden clarity, hand jumping to his side, clasping the cool steel of his gun—the security drones would be on their tail, and Dipper…Stanford Pines raised his head and saw, well, the results of a deal.

The child—though that word would be a misinterpretation, since, though the body now hunched unnaturally was that of a child, the mind within could hardly be called such—had his hand buried within the recesses of Dipper’s bag, hunting clumsily for the item Ford had so desperately tried to protect. He had not quite found it yet, there was still time to do something, though that time was ticking perilously short as the demon became aware of Ford’s consciousness and fixed upon him with a pair of glimmering eyes. Those eyes…and that smile too, the lips stretched out to the fullest extent and the teeth bared almost ferally with the gums showing beneath. But infinitely more horrific than that old grin, the one that the corners of Ford’s mouth used to trace on the edge of sleep, even more terrible than the fact that it was now spread across this poor child’s face, was the fact that it was now melting away. For the demon had realized, at exactly the same moment Ford had realized, what was about to happen next. Perhaps it was because this was all inevitable—inevitable, a good word that stripped everyone of responsibility. But Stanford Pines had glimpsed the infinite multitude of worlds that could spin out of a single moment, out of a single choice, and knew that nothing was inevitable. This was a junction between universes, and he would live in the one he chose.

Ford didn’t seem to hesitate—one could claim it was an automatic reaction to the sight of those yellow eyes, a snap decision whose consequences had not been wholly considered. But he knew better: his mind had been quicker than his hand, and had dutifully spun each option down to its most horrific detail. It was what he did best after all, think and fear. He saw the worst of both worlds, and picked the one where the fewest would suffer.

The blast sent Dipper’s body flying, farther than Ford had expected—he had never used his gun on anything quite so small before. But he immediately turned his attention towards the bag, and the rift within, though despite his best efforts he still heard the dull thud of flesh hitting soil. Never mind that now—he leapt, fast and hard as he could with his old bones and his injuries, but fast enough. Ford had himself wrapped around the bag before Bill had the chance to get Dipper’s body off the ground, but the demon was coming now too, running on all fours in a jerky, desperate manner, in total disregard for the blood spilling in a trail behind him. He took his own leap as Stanford stood up, holding the bag to his chest, prepared to take another shot. 

But Ford wouldn’t need to. As he met the demon’s gaze once again, the boy’s face twisted in a terrible snarl, he saw the yellow fleeing fast from Dipper’s eyes, the expression shifting from anger to utmost terror. By the time the body crashed into him, Bill was gone. By the time the body hit the ground, so was Dipper.

 


	2. The Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan finds out part of the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos guys...it means a lot to me as someone just starting out.
> 
> Now for your next dosage of angst:

Stan loathed himself for not knowing until it was too late. All the signs were there, even the very day had crept with foreboding—the still air, the silence—nothing moved save for the ever lengthening shadows and slow creep of the sun across the sky. He should have known—after all, it wasn’t as if he was without his reservations. They had been stewing in him all day, mostly jealousy he would never care to admit, even to himself, but legitimate worries too, and had by evening calcified into a distinct sense of dread. But dread was hardly unusual.

Still, he should have known. Known…he _had_ known, he just hadn’t accepted it. There was too much fondness left in him, too much _hope_ —a dangerous, idiotic thing. He should have known—rather, he should have _acted_ on what he knew. He should have never allowed it—what a blind, desperate fool he was, though that was all he had ever been. To pretend the boy would be safe running around these woods with _him_. The man was a magnet for danger, worse still actively sought it out, and gave no notice to how this affected those around him. Gave no notice, or, even more terribly, saw quite clearly how he dragged everyone down with him and simply didn’t _care_. Oh he had played responsible at first, quite naturally, skulking around in the basement, spitting dire warnings to anyone who came near, but even that was more about ego, his belief that he must face things alone—no, that he was the only one _capable_ of doing the things he did—than any regard for safety. It was not concern. If it was, he would not have abandoned it the moment the boy came crashing down on his doorstep.

And now the pair of them had run off somewhere, and had not come back. Stan knew well enough that Dipper would do _anything_ to impress Ford, anything at all. The boy’s actions were driven by a need to prove himself—he had already thrown himself in the path of danger one too many times for Stan’s comfort. And to think of how long he must have gone about with that journal, taking it as gospel, always wondering, searching, trusting the damned author. Stan should never had given it back—bad enough that the child was chasing monsters, worse still that he was chasing Ford. Obsession was a dangerous thing, even more so when the object of affection thrived off of hero worship—hell, what would he himself do just to keep stay on that pedestal?

Of course, it was more than just the danger of it. Danger was a given, though Ford exacerbated it twelvefold. It was _separation_. Stan was not blind to the ever growing rift within the family, the way Dipper was ever so slowly being torn from him and Mabel. Perhaps it was best that summer was almost over, that the kids would be sent home, safe and _together_. He had told Mabel as much. He could understand that she would miss the summer, but the days would grow long again, the leaves would grow back, the air would once again be warm. But a brother once lost…if Stan could will winter to come faster, he would. He would gladly face whatever came, the end of the Shack, the loss of his home, all of that which Ford had promised—as long as it meant the children were together. At least they would have each other.

It was then, as the last traces of the sun slipped below the horizon, that he learned just how terribly wrong he had been. The door swung open, and he watched Ford enter the room, not bothering to acknowledge his presence. It was not immediately clear that anything was amiss—at least, nothing from the man’s manner screamed tragedy. He strode across the room with purpose, in that eerily silent way of his, and it took a good moment for Stan to notice the slight wince where he put his foot down—he was not limping—in fact it seemed he was trying hard to place just as much weight on his bad leg as his good, but he couldn’t cover it completely. Nor, now that Stan was looking, could he hide the blood. It was everywhere, splattered across his coat, running down his legs, and now left in blackening tracks across the carpet of the Shack. The only reason Stan hadn’t immediately spotted it was that his brother had seemed so nonchalant about it, left no hint that he even recognized it was there. But pantomiming normalcy couldn’t cover this, and it certainly couldn’t hide the most horrific thing of all. It was more obvious than anything, really, though Stan’s fear had prevented him from noticing it at first. Just like him to immediately spy the least worrisome detail, refusing to register what he didn’t want to see. A limp! A limp before the blood, the blood before…well he couldn’t ignore it now, his stubborn denial was just not quite enough to let him miss the obvious—or rather, not search for what was missing: Dipper. Of course, later he would realize that he was still keeping himself from the truth. The idea of _it_ had not even crossed his mind—he could barely accept _accident_ , he did not even allow himself to consider how grave such an _accident_ might be, never even let the word _dead_ cross his mind. At least not without confirmation. He could still hope, still believe, though the twisting of his gut knew well enough that it was already over. Still, he had to ask, had to hold on to this last moment where he could at least pray the boy was still alive.

“Where’s Dipper?” he finally said.

Ford paused in front of the vending machine, with his hand poised above the keypad. He looked as if he was considering an answer, stock still, not even moving to breathe. But after a long moment, a moment that felt like an eternity, he merely punched in the code and slipped away into the room beyond. And there was Stan’s answer, a silence that said more than any words.


	3. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford reflects on his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments give me life

Trust no one. Stanford Pines had meant that the world was untrustworthy, but there was more to his words now. More than the flash of amber in someone’s eye or the glint of bared teeth, more than just betrayal, though there was that too, and he had been wrong to forget it. After all, everyone had betrayed him. There was Bill of course, conniving, deceitful, manipulative beast. That was mostly what Ford meant when he spoke of mistrust, but the monster was hardly the only backstabbing creature in all of creation. After all, Fiddleford had left him behind to face the demon alone, had cowered away when he was needed most. And Stanley…well, there was a lot to be said about _him_. The man thought only of himself, every time, all the way back to the beginning, when he spat on his brother’s dreams just to hide his own inadequacy. Perhaps it had been malice, more likely that he was just not intelligent enough to comprehend that there were more important things than him. After all, when Ford was on his last legs, when he had asked Stan to do the most simple of things, what had the man done? Acted like _he_ was the injured party, went on and on about what _he_ had been through—and who’s fault had that been anyway?—thought he deserved a warm welcome and an _apology_. Ford apologize to _him_? The very idea was laughable—if anything it should be the other way around, though an apology would not be fair pay for ruining his life. 

And nothing had even changed now, had it? Stan expected thanks, expected gratitude, and for what? Fixing what he had done in the first place? Proving he was smart enough to run a machine that was already built? Showing yet again that he was incapable of letting his brother go? That’s what it was, wasn’t it? He couldn’t let Ford go. Not then, not now. After all, what could he do without his better half? Not much, apparently—the only reason he had a home and name was because he had stolen Ford’s, and the only way he’d go on to more success was to get his brother back. Only a fool would think he had rescued him out of concern. No, it was all about survival, survival and praise. That’s why he expected gratitude—Stan wanted nothing more than to gain his brother’s praise. Gain his praise and fit him perfectly in his ideal Stanley world where everything was about _Stan_ and they went around doing what _Stan_ wanted and made sure _Stan_ was happy. So of course he had betrayed him the moment things didn’t go his way—how could Ford have expected otherwise? He should have listened to his own advice—trust no one. 

Not that this time he had been betrayed. He could not say that, no matter how much easier it might make things on himself. He was tempted, of course, tempted to say that the boy had let him down, made the foolish choice like Ford had done before him. Tempted to say he had been betrayed. But that would be a lie. The demon was wily, and it would be unreasonable to expect a child to resist him—far far greater men had been deceived, though some of those greater men deserved a hole through the chest more than others. He had been wrong to place so much on Dipper’s shoulders, and that brought Stanford to the second meaning of the phrase, the newest way to mean that no one should be trusted—if he had kept things secret, no one would be dead.

How hard would it have been to simply fetch the adhesive itself? To keep the rift hidden down in the basement? He could have kept to himself, for the better of everyone—after all, wasn’t that what Stan wanted, once he realized there was no praise to be won? And the girl, Mabel, she was content to stay with him. And Dipper…would’ve gotten over it, and even if he hadn’t, well…Ford ought to have left them alone. Selfish of him, stupid really, to think he could play both hero _and_ Grunkle. Alone was how he had done things best, alone was what he should’ve been.

Still, it was foolish to dwell on the mistakes one had already made, if one was not prepared to learn from them. What had happened could not be changed, he would drive himself mad if he kept mulling it over. But he swore, on anything and everything he held dear (which admittedly, was not very much), that it would never happen again. Never again.

He pulled the rift from its bag and placed it on the work desk before him, trying his best not to think about the red patches that coated it. Not that he wasn’t already covered with blood. He hadn’t noticed it at first, not in the heat of the moment, how much the child had bled. The blast must have gotten him directly for there to have been so much, after running and leaping and slamming into him, which was probably why it had painted Ford so thoroughly. Still, it was only until he was almost halfway home that he had noticed it, so distracted was he by everything else. And even then, even now, it hadn’t quite registered—he knew it was blood, he knew where it was from, and yet—well it was better this way, to not feel the weight of it? To be numb to everything that had happened? Even now there was a certain comfort in letting himself focus his efforts on patching the rift, carefully applying each drop of adhesive to its surface. The meaning of trust no one.

Because in order to have trusted someone, you had to be close. You would not choose to lay your life in the hands of a stranger, nor would you confide in someone you disliked. There had to be some sort of bond, some mutual understanding, some sort of reason to believe they cared—because _you_ cared. Well, Ford had cared. He hadn’t meant to, at first, had tried his best to keep away from everyone else, not grow attached. But though years and years of isolation had taught him how to survive alone, he hadn’t quite managed to squelch that human need for friends, for family. He had thought it was dead. He thought he had left the last of his compassion in some cold dimension somewhere, when he made some choice or another similar to the one he had just made now. It wasn’t the first time after all. But, compassion, love—he hadn’t been close those times, or not to the same extent. And with each click of a trigger or push of a button he had gotten even further, even colder. His heart was as good as buried, or so he thought, until the moment he had crashed through the portal and seen the kids.

Of course he had tried to stifle it—at first. He knew it was dangerous, to him, to them—he knew _he_ was dangerous. If he hadn’t known Stan’s true motives better, he would’ve said he was right to keep the children away—if he had done it out of concern, not jealously. If it was concern he would have guarded them better, would not have given up the boy the moment he had landed on Ford’s doorstep. Not that, for once, Stan was entirely to blame. Ford had tried to guard his heart, but not quite hard enough. Mabel was too charming, Dipper was too much like himself. They had made him believe, even if just for a second, that he had been wrong his entire life. That he should trust in others, that he should let himself be close. But what had that brought him? What had that brought them? Never again, he swore. Trust no one—never again.

 


	4. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan attempts to handle the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite part so far? I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Additionally, here's where that graphic depictions of violence/injuries starts to kick into effect. So far we've just had a lot of blood, but it escalates a bit here, and this is just the start. Just a heads up.

It took effort, great effort, for Stanley Pines to finally move again. Every limb, every muscle wanted him to remain frozen in place, wanted to trap him there—keep him from going out and _seeing_ , keep him from having to face the truth. It was cowardice, plain and simple, that made his body revolt against motion. There was no denying it—he had always known he was spineless, and it was no different now. For even after he had managed to peel himself from his chair and stagger across the floor, even after he managed to brave a look around the room, bolting was the first thing to cross his mind.

And he thoroughly considered it.

After all, how could he possibly stay? How could he look Dipper’s parents in the eye and tell them that their son, whose life they had entrusted him with, was dead? How could he explain what had happened, tell them it was his fault? A year ago he would have fled, would have grabbed his money, left his name, and simply fled. It was the only thing he was good at, after all. They would find what was left of their child somewhere out in the woods, and Ford would get the blame he deserved. Oh yes, the idea was tempting. Leave _him_ to explain— _he_ was responsible. Let _him_ tell them what _he_ had done. Let _him_ point to _his_ bloodied boots and the stains that darkened the floor, and say _this_ , _this_ is what has become of Dipper Pines. _This_ is what I have done to your son.

The plan was almost perfect, almost freed Stan of all consequence. A plan that let him, and everyone else, shift the blame onto Ford’s back, a plan where he might be able to look at himself in the mirror and say he had not been responsible. It would take a bit of rationalization, a bit of self-deception of course—but that was just another type of running away, and in a few months time he would rest easily enough. Oh, he’d know it was a lie of course, in his head, but by then his heart would’ve told itself he was not to blame, and there’d be no one around who’d correct it. Life would be livable at least, and not noticeably harder than it had already been. He had swallowed truths before—it was easy enough. There was just one hitch in the plan, and it was Mabel.

He couldn’t leave her, not in good, or at least falsified, conscience. He couldn’t let her wander down from the attic, wondering when her brother would return, only to find him left in stains across the floor. He couldn’t let her follow those bloody footsteps out into the darkening night, still believing there might be time, only to find…well whatever lay at the end of that trail. And then? When she had found what was left, when she had realized that she would live out the rest of her days without him, when she had no one to turn to? What then? She would find Stan gone, fled, too cowardly to face what had happened. Too cowardly to stay with her, to be there for her, to protect her as best he could. Because who else would be there? Ford _?_ Oh, he could not run away. He would not, could not, leave her here with _that man_. The idea of it made his blood boil, his teeth lock together, the fingers on his hands curl into fists. He would _not._ He would stay, face whatever came, no matter how terrible, if it meant he could do anything to clean up this mess. Anything for her.

So he went to work.

It was an easy enough start, rolling up the carpet and stowing it away, as long as he didn’t think of why he was doing it, or considered how the eye of that triangle sewn upon it seemed to watch his every move. Cleaning the wood paneling would be a far harder task, but he could leave it as it was for now—the latest stains were by now unidentifiable blotches amidst the rest of the mud and the dust. Though once it started to smell…the scent of death was not something you could shake, and Stan’s nose filled with the memory of it now—it never really left you, did it? He found himself backing out of the Shack with his stomach twisting into knots and bile rising in his throat, but it got him outside, closer to what he had to do. The difficult part.

It was getting darker by the minute, the crimson scuff marks in the dirt harder and harder to find, but they were there—no hope of hiding them come morning. Ford had just left his bloodied tracks there for the whole world to see—did he feel no shame? No compassion at all? Stan’s rage grew ever more vitriolic the closer he got to the scene, but it was a welcome change from his grief. Soon enough he was no longer searching the ground for bloodstains, though he could feel the occasional wet stick of his shoes against muddy soil—he could now see the faint glow of embers between the trees. And then suddenly there was that smell of charred flesh—not unlike that of roasting meat, but unmistakably _human_. His stomach turned, and turned again, and it was all he could do to keep stumbling forward into the trees.

It was hard to make out anything in the failing light, the curve of a large metal object, still smoldering, and the long gash in the earth stretched behind it, glowing cinders of grass and leaves flickering faintly. He thought he caught the flash of yellow eyes amidst the trees—animal, unfeeling. A few crows hopped away from his feet as he approached, there no doubt, for one reason only—a few well aimed kicks sent the rest scattering, though they only went so far, beady eyes watching his every move.

And suddenly he spotted him, what was left of him, face down in the dirt—what Stan would have done had the boy not been turned away, he could only imagine. It was bad enough anyway: there was blood everywhere, though he should not have been surprised by it, given how much Ford had tracked in. But people always bled far more than you expected, and now that he saw the nature of the injury…there almost should have been more really, for the size of the hole—he guessed it then, and he was right, that whatever had struck the boy had burned straight through him, though there was no way to tell that what he saw at the bottom of the wound was bloodied dirt rather than more gristle and gore—except that parts of the wound had been charred shut. That was the source of the smell, more reason that the truth could not be hidden—what could he do? What could he _do_?

He was powerless, really, and his smallness hit him hard—things were too far out of control for him to handle, and the world seemed to spin. But he stood his ground, he had to after all, and managed to steady himself, wait until his fear turned to grief. It was hardly better, far deeper actually, a hurt that went all the way to his core, but it was less acute, manageable in the sense that he could now act, somewhat. It was almost numbness really, but it _ached_ , and he wasn’t aware he was crying until his vision went soft.

Of course, he still wasn’t sure what to do, but he now knew the first step: he could not leave the boy out here in the woods. There were plenty of good reasons for this, but his main incentive was emotional—he simply couldn’t bear the thought letting him lie here, crumpled, bloody, to be picked at by crows. The fact that Ford had done so…well he shook that thought off, it sickened him too much to consider. No, he had to move the boy, though it was hard enough even thinking about touching him, but it had to be done. Stan inched closer, tried not to think, and with eyes squeezed shut reached out a hand.

If he had been able to process what was happening he would’ve been surprised at how his fears, his reservations, sloughed off him to moment his hand brushed against Dipper. The thought of having to pick him up, once almost repellant, vanished instantly—he felt himself pull the child close, bury his face in his hair, hold him tight to himself as if he could somehow squeeze the life back into him. He wanted to lay, curled around him, forever; if he could have died right then and there he would have done so without hesitation—let them try to pry his nephew from his cold dead hands. If only he had been there earlier, if only he had been so protective when there was still time left, if only he could have driven Ford away, hissing and spitting and letting no one near, keeping the boy safe. If only—there were so many things he could have done, so many things he hadn’t. He held Dipper as if it wasn’t too late, as if by doing so he could make up for all of the protecting he had failed to do. 

But it _was_ too late. The soft smell of his hair was stained with the metallic reek of blood, the rank stench of char. Stan could feel the coldness in the boy’s extremities—soon enough it would creep down his limbs and into his heart, the silence of which was deafening. There was no way he could pretend the boy was alive, though neither could he wholly accept the truth. It was just too much to bear, it just seemed so _impossible._ How could this have ever happened?

His mind leapt upon the answer, focused on it with terrible intensity—his anguish sublimed instantly to rage. _Ford._ Of course he did not yet know just how right he was—murderer, yes, but still an unintentional one in his mind. But _accident_ was enough, and he leapt up, still holding dearly to Dipper, but now his fears forgotten. He no longer worried about where to hide the boy—anywhere out of the way would do for now. He no longer worried about what he would say to the parents—that could be dealt with later. Even Mabel, who might have been the only thing that could have kept him from doing what he intended to do next, was no longer of immediate concern. He could lie to her for just one night, tell her that Dipper had not yet returned, and tell the truth too: that the boy loved her, that he was _a good brother._

But all these plans passed beneath his notice, his mind was now far, far away, fled into the night. He hardly noticed the time that passed, the walk back to the Shack, the heaviness of the boy in his arms. Nor did he feel the fatigue in his muscles that grew with each strike of his spade against the black earth, or how far the stars had swung above him by the time he patted down the last bit of soil. It was long past midnight when he finally crept inside. He did not care. There was nothing in him at the moment but cold, calm rage, not even a thought. Because how could he remain sane if he thought? How could he have gotten so far if he thought? He didn’t think. He didn’t let himself understand that he had just buried a child, not even when he slunk into his quarters. He didn’t consider what had happened that night, not even when he rummaged through his drawers. And he didn’t think of what was going to happen, not even when his fingers curled around cold hard brass.

 


	5. The Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford learns about the deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos, you guys are the reason I write (:  
> Also, wishing everyone a great 2017
> 
> Note: there is a brief mention of drug abuse, but it's not central

Stanford Pines did not think he had fallen asleep, did not think it was possible, though he had spent the last few days desperately trying to contain the rift on nothing but caffeine and adderall. But he must have succumbed at some point, despite his racing thoughts, despite his fear of what he might dream—of demons perhaps, but just as terribly the imaginings of his own mind. Perhaps it had just been for a second, but even a second of nodding off was enough, didn’t he know it? Enough to scratch strange symbols in his journal, gouge bloodied nails into his arm, wrap twelve fingers around someone’s throat. A second of sleep was more than enough—more than ample time to merely dream, to see that which you might not wish to see.

No, he did not remember falling asleep, but when the great metal bones of the shredded portal began to twist themselves into the shapes of trees, he knew he must have drifted off—and his lucidity could only mean one thing. For dreams are by nature nonsensical, the shouts of the subconscious meshed into an incomprehensible whole—they do not progress from start to finish in any sort of order, or at least follow no logic the waking mind can fully understand. So if you see the room about you become, step by step, a grove of aspens, all bony fingers and empty eyes, and you know you are not awake—well, you can tell this is no dream of your own.

Which meant, of course, that this was _his_ work, though why the demon should deign to come when he had lost—Ford was almost glad of it, this would serve as reminder to the horrors he had prevented. No matter what the demon did to him now—and what could he? He could speak, and nothing more, not with the spell wrapped around the house and the metal wrapped around Ford’s brain. Not, of course, to underestimate the power of Bill’s words: hadn’t that silver tongue done enough on its own, seduced him with flattery and promises of greatness? But the monster had already played his last cards, revealed his intentions—he could no longer lie, there was nothing left that he could do. He had come here only out of spite, to make Ford suffer for his victory, and even if somehow he managed to make him wholly regret the choice he had made…well, it was too late for anyone to do anything about _that_. Let him try.

And suddenly the demon was there—in each whorl on each tree shone an amber eye, in each eye a hairline pupil turned its gaze upon Ford. The man could see himself reflected in yellow a thousand times, as he had seen himself reflected in Dipper’s gaze _then_ , but it was nothing more than he expected, nothing that he had not been prepared to see.

The voice came, as always more heard within his head than in his ears, jarring, mocking. There was no hint its inflection of anger or fear—the demon covered his irritation at his loss well, coated it in mockery and laughter. He shrieked his words with apparent delight, voicing the question that had been rattling in Ford’s brain.

_You want to know why he did it, Sixer?_

Oh, he had wondered of course, wondered what could have possibly compelled the boy to make the deal, but had tried his best to dismiss the thought—it didn’t what the terms were really, just that it had happened. But curiosity was not an easy thing to swallow, and now knowing that it was something the demon had come all this way to tell—he almost wanted to learn what it was, though he knew such knowledge would best remain unlearned.

But no matter his views, no matter his desires, he knew he was about to find out exactly what had happened—the wind picked up, rattling through the leaves in hoarse whispers, and a blaze of light tore through the sky before hurtling into the ground before him, ripping a gash into the earth. Ford recognized the curved metal of the ship, and below it, splayed against the ground, himself—jarring to see one’s own body from the perspective of another, worse still to see the boy similarly prone, unconscious, though perhaps for just a second—but what had he said before? A second. Long enough to make a deal.

And what a deal.

He saw the familiar triangular shape alight on the boy, in dream representation of the scene, offering terms. Bill told Dipper that the drones were coming, that there was no way the boy could fight them off, not without feeling fear—but _he_ could. Bill said that Ford was gravely injured, near death, and that almost nothing could save him—but _he_ could. Given power of course, given physical form—and why not? The last thing Bill wanted was Ford dead, he would not kill him come the end of the world. The end of the world, that’s what the deal came down to, and everyone knew it. That, and Ford’s life. What a choice, what a choice: the breaking of the rift, the destruction of this dimension, the death and torment of billions—or Ford’s life. The boy standing there, in the midst of moral struggle, the demon laughing. What a choice. _Hand over the universe and I shall let him live. Hand over the universe or he dies._

And Dipper can not, in good conscience, kill his great uncle. 

And then suddenly the scene was over, nothing left but that laugh, rattling through Ford’s head and shaking through the blackness around. _He chose you, and boy—boy was he wrong to do so._ The cackling rose to a painful howl. _It only shows you’re a monster, just like me._

But that, no matter how ill-intended, gave Ford some ground on which to stand: Bill was a monster. He took pleasure in the suffering of others, and would gladly tear this dimension apart for the sake of his fun. Just look at how he had come here merely to taunt and tease—he seemed to have no other goal aside from malice. Few knew the extent of his atrocities, only one in _this_ world—how could the boy be expected to understand what he had just sacrificed when he didn’t even know what he was saving? Oh he should have let Ford die, if he would’ve even died in the first place—Bill was a liar, and Ford had a knack for surviving what he shouldn’t. But blood on the conscience…

No, no amount of guilt or suffering compared with what the demon would do _._ Nothing could be as terrible. No one would ever appreciate what Ford had saved them from, no, he would go down in history as murderer. The sadness of one family could not hold a candle to the atrocities Bill would rain down upon this world—they should thank him really, praise him for what he had done to protect them. And why not? He had sacrificed hope, sacrificed family, sacrificed love for the sake of everyone else. Heroic, doing what had to be done, what everyone else would have not dared to do. Losing everything for the sake of the greater good. A hero.

The demon’s laughter only grew louder, more terrible, until Ford was certain head would burst. A hero? A hero for stopping Bill?

But no, no, such thoughts were too much for Ford to handle, the idea of being lauded sickened him for once—he could not let himself be praised for murder. Perhaps if he had been a greater man he would have been allowed an easy conscience—know so well that he had done the right thing that it could not hurt him. But no, he hurt, and he resented the part of himself that hurt—had he been a stronger man he would have been proud of his actions. But he was not. He was not quite good enough, good like Dipper had been, to not do what he had done, but neither was he great enough to stand by his decision, to be a true hero. And it was that thought, that final conclusion, along with the last echoes of the demon’s voice— _the best part, you have only delayed me_ —that he brought back with him into the waking world.

 


	6. The Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan confronts Ford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is somewhat later than usual, I was traveling and school is just starting up, but there's a reason I try to be at least one chapter ahead of what I post.
> 
> Anyway, a heads up that this is the chapter that really earns the "graphic depictions of violence" warning, so if you were iffy before on the blood, you might want to sit this one out.

Stan did not know what he intended to do, did not let such things as thoughts or plans get in his way. Thinking, after all, only hurt. Thinking, after all, only stopped people from doing what needed to be done.

He was going to confront him, he knew that at least—the tap of his shoes against the winding stairs and the metal screech of the elevator doors told him as much. After all, there was no other purpose to be had here, deep in the earth, not anymore—the last time he had felt the thrum of the lift floor beneath his feet had been on that fateful day, the day he had made the biggest mistake of his life. A terrible mistake—if the two of them could agree on one thing it was _that_ — Stanley had made a terrible mistake, never should have wasted thirty years of his life just to bring death and destruction back into this world.

The elevator shuddered to a halt with a screech—no turning back now, but the point of no return had already long been passed, hadn't it? Cause, effect. Action, consequence. Let the universe rain down what must follow without thought, as natural as time or death. Let there be repercussions for what had been done.

The doors clanged open, and Stan stepped from the lift with a singleness of purpose—the purpose of a man who didn't need to know what he was going to do. Would he regret it later? Regret, perhaps, was too much of a word, but it hadn’t brought him pleasure, not even a semblance of comfort. He would leave feeling as empty as he had entered—perhaps more so, now without any hope that he could ever find peace. There was nothing left for anyone here, nothing but death and sorrow.

Ford did not give any sign that he had heard Stanley enter, though he must have, standing at the desk nearest to the door. It was strange, seeing him there, after all those years of slaving away in that very same spot, deciphering page after page of symbols, gibberish…for so long alone, for so long no real hope with him until he had placed the picture of the children up there on the cold steel. The children…

They were still there, in the portrait, though their faces were now obscured by the reflection of Ford’s spectacles, gleaming against the glass. The man was not looking at them however—Stan could see the curve of his nose turned somewhat away, cast downward—but he hadn’t moved the photo either, not in all the time he had been down here. To think that he could have kept it, kept it here on his desk and still have let the boy die—Stan boiled with anger, low and magmatic. He took a few steps across the room, slow and deliberate, and waited for a reaction.

But it did not come. Ford remained where he stood, immobile as stone, save for the subtle rise and fall of his breath. He seemed to be waiting for something, something—for Stan of course, for Stan to make the first move. And what would that be? Words? For all his anger, for all the obscenities Stan had wanted to scream at him when he had walked into those bloodied woods, now, seeing him there, the man himself, Stanley had no words. A fight? The fact he hadn’t leapt already, had hesitated, said no—he would not strike first. There was nothing that could be said, nothing that could be done, not now, without the other’s prompting. And so they both waited, in silence, the seconds stretching ever so slowly into minutes, the couple of feet between them yawning into infinite vastness. They waited for the other to make the first move.

But a thing Stanley knew about Ford’s character, how he behaved when faced with such uncertainty—while he desperately hoped to be the bigger man, to be the one who never started things, only finished them—he was impatient. He could never let time tick by without doing _something_ , had to keep himself in a state of constant motion, had to act, had to keep on doing. It had served him well, this inability to relax, for the most part—kept him writing his papers, building his machines—but he could never stand the uncertainty of doing nothing, and that, now, gave Stanley the advantage.

So it was he that gave in first, broke the silence hanging in the frigid air. A whisper, almost more to himself than to Stan, tentative, soft, uncertain. The words didn’t make sense at the time, though they would soon enough—terrible, awful words. The words of a murderer.

“I did the right thing.”

But at the time they were nonsensical, and their strangeness made Stan’s anger burn hotter. Perhaps he already knew, somewhere inside, what he couldn’t imagine. Perhaps that was why he had come here, to confirm or deny his most hidden suspicions. Perhaps that was why he hurt, oh so much, down to the very core of his being.

Still, now, up in the conscious levels of his mind, he felt nothing but confusion and rage. He had expected some sort of defense, some denial of guilt: “it was an accident” or “I couldn’t save him” or even, “he brought it upon himself.” Something he could pit himself against, disagree with, reject—but this? How could he fight would he did not understand?

At least the silence had been shattered, and Stan suddenly found his words, running from his mouth in a torrent of pure vitriol. They came barbed and venomous, arrows of concentrated emotion and hostility, every thought and every accusation. Everything—that Ford should have died all those years ago, should have rotted away on some distant world, should have never been born. That it was his fault, that he put everyone in danger, that he cared for no one but himself, that he was a monster. And how, how could he have just left him there? How could he have given no care to the blood he tracked over the shack? And what about Dipper’s parents? And what about Mabel? How, how could he have just walked away and done nothing?

Done nothing—it still held true, amidst all the words and questions and insults that Stan rained down upon him, Ford stood fast, unmoved. He did not turn his head, did not even flinch, gave no sign that he had even heard, and it was this that really got to Stan, more than anything else that had happened before.  
“How can you just stand there?” he howled, eyes stinging with tears. “How can you just stand there like you don’t care?”

And this time the silence was too much.

Stan pounced, covering the distance between them in under a second, crashing into him and slamming both of them painfully into the desk. He heard to splinter of glass as Ford’s elbow went into the frame of the photo, the whumph of the air he knocked out of his chest, the clatter of books against the floor. But still there was no answer, not even in the form of resistance—his instincts had told him to expect retaliation, to beware, that Ford would fight back, hard and dangerous, with all the terrible strength he had gained in those far off worlds. But he didn’t, didn’t strike back with a powerful kick or flip Stan over him and onto the desk, didn’t even raise a hand to claw or push him away. Neither did he attempt to escape, to slip or crawl away, merely lay there amidst the the scattered papers and bloodied glass, still without a single word.

It was not enough for Stan, who yanked him off the desk by the scruff of his neck, sending them both teetering backwards, feet slipping against the metal floor, still slick from the blood Ford had tracked in. Neither, however, fell—they both managed to regain some semblance of balance, both that is, before Stan caught Ford across the face with his fist.

It was a terrible blow; he could feel the man’s nose buckle and give way, feel the tear of flesh under the brass he had subconsciously slipped onto his hand, feel the spray of blood—though there was already so much blood on him already, but this, this was warm, warm and fresh. Ford’s glasses went arcing across the room, bent, bloody, shattered, before clattering against the floor. Still, the man did not go down—he staggered there for a second, and, more of a gurgle now than any real words, said it again.

“I did the right thing.”

This time Stan managed to catch him in the jaw—there was a terrible crunch, the sound of teeth skittering across steel, more blood, so much blood—but Ford finally fell, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. And still he was choking out that sentence, incomprehensible now, spitting pink froth from his lips as his hands and legs scrabbled against the gore covered ground. It was hard to watch, hard to see, but no worse a sight than Dipper with the hole torn through his chest—Stan pulled his arm back for another blow, but caught the look in Ford’s eyes and felt his blood turn to ice.

Because that was when he knew, realized with sudden clarity, the truth. Why the man did not fight back, why in his eyes he held no surprise at the sudden attack, nothing but a strange sort of resignation—resigned yes, but not for one second cowed, still that glint of cold steel, that fire of self-conviction. He met Stan’s eyes with a sort of challenge, a confession yes, but one whose purpose was neither apology nor regret. _I killed him,_ it said _. No accident. I actively made the choice to end his life. And you know what? I did the right thing._

If Stan had been able to beat him, break his jaw and splinter his nose into a thousand pieces, over _accident_ , he should have been willing to kill him now, then and there, leave him nothing but a bloody pulp on the floor. The man would not resist it. There was a look of expectation in those eyes, expectation of his imminent demise—he would let it happen, without so much as a whimper. Oh, Stan should have killed him. He should have ended it right there, on the floor where it had all began, brought consequence to action, effect to cause. But he didn’t—he couldn’t, and he didn’t know why. For in that moment he realized he could no longer touch the man, could no longer stomach the thought of even being in the same room as him.

So Stan did what he did best—he turned tail, and ran.

 


	7. The Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford deals with the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've marked this down as having eight chapters, but the final segment might be long enough to merit a two part release. Sorry again for my tardiness, and as always thanks to everyone who gave kudos or left a comment (:

He lay there for what felt like an eternity, drifting in and out of consciousness, waiting to see if this time, for once, he would die. Perhaps. Each shuddering breath had to force its way up through his throat, gurgle out from his ruined jaws, spill and burst in sticky bubbles of mucus and blood—perhaps he would die. He might just lose all of his blood out there on the floor, have it seep out of him until there was nothing left, veins running empty, empty as he felt. Already he had lost enough to make his mind grow hazy, strip much needed clarity from the world…had his reason dribbled out of his mouth with the rest of him, or was it merely distracted by pain? Because there was pain too, enough to muddy his thoughts. You never quite learned to think _and_ suffer at the same time, no matter how many times you did either. 

And he had suffered before. Been raked over coals literal and metaphorical, been bruised, beaten, tortured—it seemed he had lived through every conceivable punishment a man could dream, worse still, the imaginings of a demon. Had the monster not found it in his pleasure to hurt him, to take a seat in the depths of his brain and set every nerve in his body alight? Let him writhe and scream his throat into ribbons…this, now, on the floor was nothing, nothing more than a few cuts and bruises, but still it hurt, oh so much. Hurt to the point that if he was going to die, he wanted it done with. And why not? He had done his job, had protected his world from harm. There was nothing left here for him to do, nothing left here at all.

Perhaps that was why he hadn’t fought back. He could have defended himself, pinned his attacker down with minimal effort, held him there until the man regained reason, or, more likely, until he exhausted himself. It worried Ford really, deeply concerned him that he had not taken this course of action, that he had left himself at the mercy of fate when he had so long striven against it. Perhaps he had had a good reason to do as he did—or rather, not do what he hadn’t—and could simply not remember it, not understand it, not with most of his blood in a puddle around him, not with his mind consumed by agony.

Yes, and wasn’t that worst of all, the sheer panic of feeling your mind slip from reason, lose itself in a world of disjointed image and emotion, turn clarity into cloudiness and confusion? He clawed against madness, grasped desperately for the concrete, tried to tally his status in the calm way of the scientist, note each and every injury as it lay, but it didn’t matter, all he really understood is that he hurt, hurt terribly, and didn’t know why he had let it happen. Not that he would ever really know, or more accurately, admit. That his words were a plea to himself, who did not wholly believe them. That he had let it happen because he thought he _deserved_ it.

Perhaps he should have given in now as he did then, stop fighting and let his mind drift away, let his thoughts unwind into spools until there was nothing left. Never admit he felt he was wrong, never even have to reason through why he was right—give up. But Ford had always been stubborn, stubborn and afraid of failure, and most of all he feared the places his unfettered brain would tread. 

And that, he figured later, was why, yet again, he did not die. Why he lay there hour after hour, taking each rasping breath, the blood dripping ever more slowly before hardening over his face. He did not die because he refused to loosen his grip on his mind—oh, at first he thought he might, but as time stretched onwards he knew he’d live. He had lost blood, but not to the point of running out. His heart strained, but not to the point of breaking. His mind wandered, but not to the point of no return.

Which meant, of course, that he would have to figure out what to do now. There must, he thought, be something—some reason he had survived. A job to be completed, a loose end to tie, anything to keep him here. Perhaps it was his lack of blood that made him suddenly believe so strongly he had a _purpose_ , a _fate_ , something so unscientific as to say he was destined to do something he hadn’t already done, play a role that only he could play. But hadn’t he always believed? That he was special, meant for greatness? And even if the notion seemed ridiculous, wasn’t there some inkling of truth in it? After all, who else could have done what he had done? Who else would be willing to go so far, farther even than the normal boundaries of good or evil, and still survive? Survive to do what? There was no question about it—survive to do what he intended. What he had chased for thirty years. What he had prepared, no, _remade_ himself to do.

Kill Bill Cipher.

He had not quite been strong enough in the last attempt. Even if the portal’s glare had not yawned beneath his feet in that moment, he would not have had enough conviction. No, though he would not admit it then, he had still been tied down, still felt amidst his indignation a relief, a connection—had it not been for the timing, for the danger, he still could have felt joy in returning home. Home—he had still had somewhere he wished to be, someone he wished to see; had another desire in his heart, and that was why he couldn’t have finished things then and there.

But now there was nothing holding him back. Nothing telling him he had to survive, nothing to make him pause, nothing to hold against him. Injuries healed, and he did not need his voice or his teeth for what was to be done. He had his hands, he had the image in his mind—the portal, but in this other world built strong, built to keep the fabric of the dimensions it gapped intact. He had the weapon, in all its ferocious power, sight made to single out one thing. He had singleness of purpose.

There was blood all over the floor, oh so much blood, his and Dipper’s, black stains and warm pools, but it was nothing, _nothing,_ compared with what was going to be shed. Let the stars run red and the cracks between worlds froth crimson and the foundations of everything shake with the demon’s screams. Let that be, or may Stanford Pines never have been born—he swore it. No longer would he play with fate, dare believe he could be anything else, try to find another way: a way with a home, a family, with Dipper. Bill had to be killed—he had to be killed, or Ford would die trying. There was no other way.


	8. The Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan talks to Mabel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather long so I decided to split it into two parts. At the moment I'm not really planning on putting a Ford section in between them but who knows, I might change my mind. If I do I'll just make this its own separate chapter but right now I'll just have it as 8-part 1.
> 
> Edit: As of now (2-5-17) its own, separate part.

It felt as there was nothing left inside of him, that when his anger had evaporated—and it had, the instant he had _understood_ , had gone and left him empty and alone—that he had lost any and all ability to feel, or at least feel anything other than the empty void where his emotions had so recently burned before.

He rode the lift screeching up towards the waking world, staggered up the flight of stairs in a daze, nothing to keep him going but the faint shadow of fear, a memory more than a feeling. Perhaps it was for the best that he felt nothing: consider his previous terror of telling the parents, of telling _her_ , consider his sorrow and his guilt at what had happened. And what had? Murder; the details didn’t really matter, though clearly there must have been a _reason_ —after all it was one thing for a man to kill over nothing and worse for a man to kill and believe he had done the right thing. Had the town hung in the balance then? The universe? But to answer that question would mean putting a price on Dipper’s life, and even disagreeing on such a price gave the idea of _price_ validation, gave the question of life over life the right to even be asked. Stanley would ask no such questions—Ford had killed Dipper, and that was that.

Now for the consequences.

Ford had gotten his, all right, and they were terribly light—perhaps that was why Stan felt no satisfaction in doling them out, nothing but emptiness. The man would bleed down there for a bit, then brush himself off and not have to deal with it anymore, stand firm in the knowledge that he had done the right thing, perhaps find himself a sort of martyr— _I did the right thing, and I suffered for it, and I am a hero_. He could lock himself away for as long as he liked, and he did not have to do anything else. That or he would die, die like he should have thirty years ago—but even that was an easy way out, compared to Stanley’s lot. He did not have to purge the bloodstains from the wood of his home, did not have to explain, or at least come up with an explanation of what had happened. He did not have to dial the number of two waiting parents and hear their voices crack on the phone. He did not have to look Mabel in the eye and tell her that her brother was never coming home.

She was waiting for him when he reappeared, standing in the front door of the shack and looking out into the night, though morning was coming fast and already the sky had become distinctly grey. Morning—it felt bizarre that the sun would come up as per usual, brighten the world as it would on any other day, but it was here, creeping over the horizon and chasing back the night. There were birds chirping in the trees as Mabel turned to face him, fog clearing off the ground as he stepped instinctively back into the shadows to hide the bloodstains on his clothing—morning here when she met his gaze, eyes rounded with surprise. He could see that she had spent the night awake waiting for morning, waiting for _him_ to come home.

He hadn’t prepared what to say. He hadn’t dared consider the conversation, too distracted, too afraid of what might happen, knowing there was no way the outcome of such a talk could be good. All he could hope was for better, better than the alternatives, best possible solution—but he didn’t have the heart or mind to play through all of the ways such a conversation could go, and after all, even if he figured out which path was right, would he be brave enough to follow it? Say what needed to be said? Once a coward, always a coward. Once a liar…

It was the only thing he was good at, lying. Running about with stolen names while his own was buried in the earth not too far from where Dipper was buried now, never once letting slip the secrets below the house even though he knew that if his plans succeeded he would have reveal them—but had he really expected he’d succeed? Well he had, and the metaphorical cat had destroyed everything before he had the chance to put it back in its bag—once again, he must leave the man locked in the basement, but this time he would throw away the key. Hold him down there and hope he wouldn’t do any more damage. Keep him as far away from Mabel as possible. Stanley doubted the real Stanford Pines would ever dare show his face again, but if he tried, well…

Mabel called to him softly, a question in her voice, but it wasn’t his name that she used. Reasonable enough really, with him standing in the shadows of a place that belonged to another, but it still hurt him as much as he could be hurt anymore. That his figure in the dark could be mistaken for _that man_ , a reminder that they were brothers and that he had so much in common with the creature that was bleeding out beneath the house. He corrected her, softly, and began to speak.

There’s a thing about lying, that to lie well you have to believe in what you’re saying, not wholly of course, but enough to convince someone. Any actor will tell you that when you’re on that stage it’s no longer entirely pretend—you slip into the skin of your character and become them for a moment, feel their thoughts and feelings and know only what they know. Well Stan became someone else, a man who wondered where his brother and nephew had gone, concerned, maybe even a bit worried—after all he had just gone to check the basement to see if Ford had returned, hadn’t he? and found it empty?—but no more knowledgeable about their whereabouts than he had been the day before. It was comforting, really, to be this other man, the man of yesterday. Even if back then he had already had his reservations. Even if back then he had already had his premonitions. It was not the mistrust or the fear or guilt that was different in this man, who had not been, after all, _so_ surprised see his brother return without the boy, dripping with blood—it was the fact that he lacked the knowledge of what had happened. Didn’t have the scent of charred flesh in his nose, the feeling of warm blood turning to crust on his hands, the sound of those words ringing in his ears. Didn’t have the memory of what had been done. The memory…

Perhaps that was the moment the seed of the idea was planted in his head, to fester and to grow until he let himself be aware of it. When he had sent Mabel, gruffly, but not necessarily harshly, back to her room to sleep, and wondered about what he would say when someone found the blood in the grass—after all, a new day, tourists, Wendy and Soos and everyone else running about the place. Could he lie then? Maybe, maybe not, but he didn’t care so much about what the town thought. Perhaps he would be implicated for murder, with the blood pointing to the house and the body buried in his backyard—but it wasn’t the first time, and he had no plan on sticking around anyway. Let him tell them all there had been an _accident_ , and maybe let them search the house and find the one responsible. He could not hide the fact that Dipper was dead, and he didn’t care to hide it, not from _them_ , who would be shocked, even hurt, but not destroyed. But his parents, his parents and his _sister_ …he couldn’t tell them, even if it was impossible not to. Impossible…or so he thought, but the idea of _it_ was perhaps already there, though not quite ready to be considered. It would have to wait a little longer, wait for him to follow the current path a little further and catch a glimpse of the horrors that awaited. Wait for him to see the consequences—and deny them.

 


	9. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford encounters Mabel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I've been pretty busy in the real world unfortunately. 
> 
> Anyway, I seem to have lied when I said that I wasn't putting another Ford section in--here it is now. Looking like this mess is going to wrap up at a nice, even 10 chapters--hopefully I can get the ending up soon.
> 
> As always, a special thanks to people who left kudos and especially to those who left comments--trust me, they really make my day. And as always, enjoy--as much as you can "enjoy" something like this.

Perhaps he said it for her sake, perhaps he said it for his—let the words spill from his mouth where there had been nothing but silence before—but if there was a reason it was not one he had considered. Rather, he had acted on a sort of instinct, a sort of need—a _compulsion_ , and one he could only rationalize rather than understand. And even then, even if he could settle on an answer, a true reason with flawless rationale—had he thought through all the possibilities beforehand? No, he had just let it happen, just let the words out of his mouth like so much blood, all on a whim. The sort of whim that lead you to dole out vengeance. The sort of whim that lead you to take it.

He was losing it really, his reason, perhaps the one thing he had left. Losing it where he needed it most, when he needed to keep his focus sharp and his mind firm. How could he hope to kill a demon when he couldn’t handle the mere touch of a child? He had never been the sort to cry, not even when he had been betrayed, nor when he was torn from this world, not even when he had returned. Even when he had taken the shot, had he shed a single tear? Even after Stanley had tried to draw them out with brute force he hadn’t, not even a whimper. But this…

It had happened some hours after dusk, a little over a day after his _choice_ …but time was no longer something he could really understand, not when he had spent what felt like days lying on the floor, waiting for death to make up its mind. The clock on the wall meant nothing—it ticked, insistent in his aching head, ever so slowly, and yet each time he mustered the strength to look towards it he would find the hands had swung far longer across the dial than he thought possible. Was it an eternity or no time at all before he had dared attempt to push himself off the floor? He could feel his his hands and legs slip across blood, scrabble for purchase on the cold ground—even the simple action left him breathless, and he flopped down again with a thud, vision clouded with spots and body numbed with pain. It was tempting to remain there, really, and never get up. Close his eyes and wait for dehydration to end him, sleep soundly for once and forever. But he had already decided to kill Bill Cipher. 

Of course, he was in no shape to fight the demon, but neither had he been when he fought the creature last, so formidable was Bill’s power—and he had still gotten close. He could take that final stretch, if he was willing. _Willing—_ He was more than willing, will was all he had left, will was why he was alive. The only thing in his way was pain, and what was that really? The insistence of the animal brain to preserve the flesh, to not injure oneself further, to heal, to survive…nothing more. He had no such desire, no reason to live longer than it took for him to finish the job. All he had to do was lift himself off the ground, adjust the portal ever so slightly, and _fight_. And there was nothing in his way.

So he pushed upwards again, arms trembling, gritting his teeth together as he peeled his face off the ground, noting where his jaws failed to meet. He made it to fours, and why not? His arms and legs were entirely intact—they had no reason to fail him. Even getting to his feet was not beyond reach, but while he knew it was possible, he was no fool—better wait for the blood he had left to circulate in his veins before he tried, or risk blacking out. Four would do for now, he could drag himself to his desk and work, adjust his calculations…

But that was when it happened. What brought her down he did not know—he did not care to know, and it didn’t really matter, not compared to the fact that she _was_ here, somehow. It had never crossed his mind that she could be—at first, when he heard the screech of the lift he had thought it nothing more than the ringing of his ears, and then, when it became too loud to ignore, Stanley—though why he would ever dare return Ford could not comprehend. To finish the job perhaps, but he was too much of a coward. He could only ever express himself with his fists, and when the truth turned out to be too much even for that, he fled. If he thought Ford had been wrong he would’ve said it, but he hadn’t the guts to admit that even to himself that the man had done the _right thing_.

Still, as impossible as Stan’s return was, it was more possible than what happened next. It was more possible than the soft voice that spoke behind him with a quaver and a question, with ignorance and a sadness that already knew. She was good at pretending, good at looking past the darkness and making light of every situation, had a joy that one might mistake for naivety but was, he thought, a well practiced form of denial. Well practiced, but not nearly powerful enough.

Because she knew, when she called out his name. Who wouldn’t, with the blood darkening the ground and the man that was supposed to be with her brother there in the middle of it? But that she had to find out this way…it was too much. She wouldn’t have come if she knew, if she had been told—thinking on it, now, it did not surprise him that she _hadn’t_ been told—Stan was a liar and a coward, far too much so to be honest about something like _this_. And yet, though Ford knew Stanley well enough, there was still part of him that was shocked at the man’s selfishness, at his fear—shocked and angry that he would put himself before her and lie just to avoid having to tell her the truth. And here he had thought almost that the man loved her. Had he even loved Dipper? Was it truly vengeance when he had come down here or merely a way to save face, to look in the mirror and be able to say he had done right by his great nephew by beating his killer into the ground? Just another excuse to take out his frustration at his own inadequacy on his betters? An attempt to make his brother feel guilty about what he’d done? Of course it was, and Ford had been wrong to expect anything more.

So now what? It was on him to tell the truth, or at least the part of it that she needed to hear. He had left it to Stanley because she had made the mistake of loving him, because while he himself was honest he was not one for words. He had never been good at being kind, which is why he had been able to do what he had done.

Still he had to say it—to leave her knowing what she knew without anyone daring to confirm…well, that was pointlessly cruel. However, he did not intend to confess—there was no good in that truth, not now, not for her. Maybe when she was older she would understand, but a child could not be expected to see the right in what he had done, not the way Stan should have seen. Hard enough to say would she could understand. Hard enough to say that her brother was dead.

But no harder than killing him.

He managed to choke the words out, hardly more than a growl really, a gag on clotted blood and a wheeze of breath. But she heard him, heard him because she already knew what he was going to say, and the silence that followed said more than he ever could. It was painful really, more so than any of his injuries, and it seemed to drag on forever, punctuated only by the ever slowing tick of the clock. As each minute passed he became more and more certain that she must have left—surely she would have given out a sob by now, some sort of cry? He must have lost the sound of the lift in the infernal clicking of each second, must have lost track of her along with everything else. She was gone, or so he thought, gone—and then she reached out and touched him.

He shrieked, and his hand, which he had not raised to defend himself, went straight for her, shoved her off with undue force. As he turned he caught the utter shock in her eyes, dripping with tears, all the surprise and sadness on written on her face. But overall she was mostly confused, startled by his violent reaction and yet her arm still reached out for him, and there was a gentleness in the curve of her hand that broke his heart. He had not realized that there was anything left to break.

And now he could see her expression shift again as she caught a good look of him. He saw her horror, and then—no, it was too much. Too much that she, who had just lost her brother, would worry about _him_. Too much that she, in the midst of her own suffering, would reach out her hand to comfort _him_. Perhaps he had lost too much blood, perhaps he suddenly thought she could handle it, perhaps he was so confused that he thought that telling the entire truth was the right thing to do—or perhaps he merely felt guilty. Perhaps he was just too weak in his conviction that he had done what was best to not believe he was a monster. Perhaps somewhere deep down he couldn’t stand the idea of being loved, not when he had done what he had done. Maybe that was why he said it. Maybe that was why he spat the bloodied words from his mouth. Maybe that was why he took such satisfaction in watching her concern evaporate into fear, seeing her cringe away from him and flee, sobbing.

“I killed him.”

He said it with such conviction that even her, with her happiness and her denial and her belief in his goodness, had to know it was true. Still, she froze for a second, couldn’t quite process it, so strange was the idea that it didn’t quite sink in. Instead she stood there completely lost, no longer certain of anything or anyone—how could she be when she had been so lied to and betrayed? Perhaps it would’ve been for the best if she had stayed lost, stayed staring out beyond him with her brows curled upwards and her tears stayed by surprise. Perhaps it would’ve been for the best…but it was not to be. He could see her eyes meet his and hover there for a second, before it hit her—her pupils shrunk to pinpricks and she blanched, took a sudden step back, looked like she would topple over in her haste to get away…But she didn’t, she turned and fled and made a sound halfway between a whimper and a scream as she ran.

He watched her go with a sort of black satisfaction, a sort of cruelness worthy of what he had become. But it was not to last, because when she had disappeared he found himself fallen limp against the ground again, this time wracked with muffled sobs.


	10. The Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley Pines takes one last chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but I have the ending up now! It was gonna be two parts but I decided to put them both up at once since they were both from Stan's POV. Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed reading--if enjoy is really the right word for a mess like this. Special thanks to everyone who dropped a comment on this, I dunno how I would've finished if it hadn't been for you guys. And if you haven't already said something (or even if you have, heck--), please do so! Comments, critiques, suggestions for the future...everything is welcome.
> 
> Note--implied self-harm in this one, in case that's a concern
> 
> With that being said, well...
> 
> \--remember the name---

She knew. How she knew was a mystery—but it was not one Stan cared to put his mind to, it was an inconsequential worry when compared to everything else, or so he thought. Later, of course, he would suspect the truth. Suspect the truth and know that he had not only failed to protect Dipper but her as well, that he should have told her sooner, or at least made sure that she would never set foot in that place, never encounter _that man_. Should have barred the door with bricks and lies and tell her that they were both gone—oh he should have said that Ford was dead, maybe it was even true—but he feared the idea of her mourning him, feared it like nothing else. He could claim that he wanted to minimize her sorrow, wanted her to only have to cry for one—but he knew well enough that the root of his fear lay in seeing her loving him, a murderer and a monster, the person who should have been left for dead all those years ago.

But as it turned out, he had no need to worry what she might think of him: she knew _that_ truth too—Stan could see as much now. He had thought at first when he found her door locked and the sound of sobs behind it that she merely wanted to be left alone—later, when he finally dared to say something, that she was mad at his lies and perhaps even blamed him in part for her brother’s death—but then, when she finally crept down from the attic after days of refusing food and drink, finally saw him, well…he could see well enough the look of horror in her eyes. She had glimpsed something terrible in his face, for a moment spotted there the monster with whom he shared his shape—she _knew_. And worst of all was that she was right in her judgement, in her fear—if only she had known the terrible feeling Stan had when he saw her flee from him—a selfish, cowardly feeling, one no good man would ever dream of. Because when he had seen that she knew, knew without him having to tell her, knew everything—he had felt _relieved_.

Yes, perhaps it was for the best that she locked him out. He could not do anything for her after all, nothing but leave plates of food outside of her door and pick them up when they had gone too long untouched. After all if he could not speak to her before, what could he say now? He had no comfort to give, and to say things would be fine was too great a lie even for him. No, he could not help her, and worse, was not worthy of trying. He was just as terrible as the man rotting down there in the basement, worse still, perhaps, for he could not begin to believe or even argue that he had done the right thing.

No, there was not a moment he could say he had done what was right. He had brought a monster into this world, and, even seeing him for what he was let that monster have his way. Even attacking him in the end…what did that do? It didn’t fix anything, didn’t bring Dipper back, was nothing more than another excuse that he couldn’t even believe, a lie that tried to tell him that he had at least done justice. Justice? There was no justice for this, and even if there had been, even if Stan had truly delivered it, it couldn’t make him a good man. No, if he had been truly good he would have spoken to her, found the words that would serve her best and keep her from those that would surely break her. But he was not a good man—even now he had yet to pick up the telephone to call her parents, could not muster the courage to tell them even for her sake.

But this conversation, at least, he could also avoid. By now word must have begun to spread—soon the police would be crawling around asking questions, and he did not fear telling _them_. He did not care how they felt, not like he pretended—it must have been pretending, after all—to care about her. Well, they could pass the news to the parents, they could take her away. Keep her safe from the both of them. After that…well, what did it matter? Perhaps they would suspect him of murder, he who had told no one and buried the body in his yard in the dead of night. He would not deny it if they did. Easy enough to run away before then, easy enough to stay.

Perhaps, he thought, it might be better to confess. Even now he wondered if someone had seen what happened that night, the strange old man with smoking gun tracking his nephew’s blood into the Mystery Shack—the police might be on their way even now. He could offer himself up for the first time in his life, and they might find Ford, and they might not. It didn’t really make much of a difference, did it?

He walked over to the phone, and, as he had done several times, picked it up and let the hum of it fill his ears. Call the parents, call the police. His finger hovered over the dial for a good long second…but he let it drop as he always did, and yet, for once, it wasn’t for cowardice.

No, it was a different feeling holding him back, the same feeling that had kept him from running away, leaving everything behind and letting someone else deal with this mess. Someone who would find Mabel, call what was left of her family—but no, not yet, he had a feeling that there was still something left for him to do. There was some idea niggling in his brain that told him that not all hope was lost, but how, how could that be when everything was lost? Lost. Everything lost. _Lost…_

And there it was, the idea, or more accurately, a sliver of hope—an idea that only the most cowardly liar would ever dare dream, and yet, perhaps it could be for the best, perhaps in this case it was the _right thing…_

There was a chance. A tiny chance, but he had to try, even if it meant going down _there_ , even if it meant facing _him._ No, he had not been brave enough to tell the parents. No, he had not been brave enough to tell her. But this wouldn’t be the truth—this would, perhaps, be the biggest lie he had ever told.

 

It was harder, going down the second time. The last time he had been here he had come in a sort of trance, a haze of empty resolve, not thinking on what he intended to do—but this time he was not spared the knowledge of what might come. If only he could lose his thoughts now and merely act as he had done then—but no, each step he took was a fight, each click of his feet against the cold cement sprung a thousand black thoughts into his head, sent terror rattling through his bones. He feared the man was dead, or worse, _alive_ —that he must face him and see that killer’s conviction in his bloodied face, see his own reflection. Would he be obligated to end it then, finish what he started? But he couldn’t—the thought of killing Ford filled him with unimaginable terror, terror he could not understand. After all, they were both, in the end, murderers…he should not have been afraid. And after all…leaving him alive was so much worse.

There was blood on the floor of the elevator, Stan didn’t have to look down to know. He could feel his feet slip in it, smell the familiar metallic reek—he grimaced, closed his eyes, and tried his best to ignore it, but though he had worn his shoes he swore it was soaking through his socks. Impossible, maybe, but the sensation was real enough to send him springing away the moment the doors opened again. Perhaps this was for the best, leaping without thinking, perhaps it was the only way he would have been able to enter that place. No, if he had even stopped to consider where he was headed he would not have had the resolve…

Even now it took him a moment to realize where he was, spot the shattered glass and the rotting blood and the broken teeth and understand what it was, truly comprehend that he was back here. Back here with _him._ The man himself was not directly present—a relief, or a fear—he must have dragged himself off somewhere, to recover or die, but he was surely _somewhere_ , waiting to be found, and the thought filled Stan with dread.

But what did it matter, in the end? Ford was of no concern anymore, not the reason he was here. It would be best to grab what he had come for as soon as possible and ignore the rest, get out of here while he could—Stan sucked in his breath, closed his eyes, and crossed over to where he had seen it last, the object he so desperately needed.

It wasn’t there. He didn’t quite understand this at first, kept grasping at empty air, checked and rechecked the spot where it had to be. The idea of searching the place was simply so abhorrent that it took quite a few moments to realize he would even have to look, and even when he did he frantically searched the immediate area multiple times before he entertained the idea of digging further into this terrible place. Of course, he could always give up—assume what he was after had been destroyed, or hidden so well he would never find it. It was oh so tempting, to run from the shattered photograph on the ground before him or the bent frames of those hellish glasses at his feet. To run…he could just call it a lost cause and escape, leave this dungeon, leave this house, leave this wretched town…had his gaze not led him again to the long streak of blood across the floor—and this time to the tiny splotches by it. Footprints. _Her_ footprints.

He should have known that she had come down here. That she had come down here and _seen_. It was the only way she could have possibly learned the things she knew, all the horrors and secrets he could not divulge…and yet the thought of her here was so terrible that he had not allowed himself to consider it, not until now in the face of indisputable proof. Her. Here. With the blood and the shattered teeth and the stench of death and _him,_ him somewhere lurking, every bone in his body murderous and broken. Nothing she could ever witness—witness and survive, how she had managed to live with this image for so long, for so long with only Stan as guardian!—he didn’t know how it was possible. How was she not yet dead, or at least completely broken? Or maybe she was, locked up there in her room, and he, being the fool he was, hadn’t noticed. He was seized by the sudden urge to go to her, to make sure it wasn’t too late, for surely it already was…but what then? There was nothing he could do to save her, not without _it,_ not unless he found what he was looking for. 

He had to search.

It was a long and difficult process, scouring the place, skulking around amidst all the memories and blood. He rifled through drawers, checked on top of shelves, dug beneath machines, looked through all the hidden places he had found over the years. But still he found nothing—nothing near where he had seen it last, nothing over by the control panels or even down in front of the maw of that terrible machine, their great mistake. Something about the thing seemed different than before—he had not paid the portal heed when he had been here last, had assumed it had been wholly dismantled…and yet here it was, only half torn down, and what was left seemed different than before, sturdier somehow, something new and strange. There was blood around the machine too, not much, but enough, fresher than before—half dismantled…or half complete?

The portal troubled him, as always, but this was a new dread, one without the hope or determination that had pulled him through those thirty long years. He wondered briefly if the man had used it again, dragged his bloodied self back into—where? It had never been clear, but the sense he had was that of hell, hell terrible and literal and where the both of them deserved to be. Yes, perhaps Ford was back there now—after all, he had not found the man in his search. This was something he had tried his best not to think on as scoured the place, but it was impossible not to, not with the fear with which he turned each new corner and the hollowness he felt when they turned up empty.

Still, while he hadn’t found Ford himself, he definitely found _signs_ of Ford. Blood, of course—it was everywhere really, first in a long streak across the floor and then in drips and splatters and smears. Only to be expected. But what of the stray teeth, away from where the rest of them had been knocked out? Lost later, or pulled?. And the clumps of hair, silver and grey, matted red at the ends, white tufts twitching as he passed? The DnDnD set, graph paper torn to shreds and strewn across the floor, dice and figurines scattered and bloodied? Signs, signs that he couldn’t bring himself to either pity or gloat over, but no Ford. No Ford, and more importantly, no sign of what Stan was searching for.

He had hunted for it for what seemed like hours, though time was not something he felt he could really grasp anymore. It was an eternity, a nightmare—all dread and fear and sorrow and nothing concrete, nothing real save for the little bits of Ford all over the ground and the wretched portal. All that and Mabel, Mabel…he was loathe to give up now, and yet he had finally, perhaps for the first time in his life, realized things were truly hopeless.

Funny that, really, that he had never really been hopeless before, when he had every reason for it. And yet what was the only thing he ever had but hope? Hope that he could make a fortune, buy back the approval of his family? Hope that he could survive, that kept him fighting the odds, that chewed him out of the trunk of a car. Hope that he could save his brother, even with only one journal, even as the years stretched on by. He had hoped—if hope was the word for stubbornness and a refusal to die—and he had kept on hoping. But now?

Now it was too late, and there was nothing left for him to do. Dipper was dead, Ford must have crawled off into hell, and Mabel…well, he couldn’t even spare her the truth. After all those years of hoping perhaps it was better to give in…what had hoping gotten him after all? He had money, he was alive, and he had brought Ford back into the world, sure, but all that had come of all of it was grief. Better now to let fate take the wheel and stop fighting the inevitable. Stop hurting, stop caring, stop hoping, because all his stubbornness and will had brought was death. Give up now. Call the police and let them take her away.

He managed to drag himself back into the lift, but it took effort; it was so tempting just to lie there on the floor and wait for whatever came. But as long as he could do anything for her he had to try, even if they were the littlest of things, changing the food sitting in front of the attic door, calling her parents…It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get him back into that bloodied elevator and—

His mind, tired and sad as it was, made him pause.

Blood—in the elevator. A lot of blood. Ford’s.

No blood in the stairwell behind the vending machine.

Then where?

Another floor.

Hope.

It is a strange thing to be filled with determination, especially just seconds after giving up, but perhaps he really had been too stupid to give up at all. After all, his mind must still have been desperately searching for hope to have noticed the blood, to have made the connection. Not that he hadn't considered that there might be an extra room here before, but he had never had such solid proof, nor such motivation to find it. Never proof…nor bloody fingerprints smeared over the lift keys.

It took a few guesses, a few mistakes, a few attempts, but eventually the elevator began to shudder upward, upward yes, but not as far as the highest floor.

He had forgotten in his adrenaline to be afraid. To consider what he was about to encounter, to fear what was going to be done. It was so easy to be caught up in hope, so easy to lose the truth, especially when it was a truth you wanted to forget. Yes, he was in the same position as before, still looking for the same thing, still daring to face Ford to get it—and yet this time he was the weight of what he was doing didn’t strike him, at least not until he was delivered to this other floor.

It was a strange place really, plastered wall to wall with that old triangular motif that haunted the house, a thousand yellow eyes watching him with that cold stare. He swore he saw them blink where they were reflected on the bloodied floor, but he forced his attention away, stepped over these crimsons splotches like he had with the others below, surveyed the cluttered desks and machines for any sign of—

And there it was, the glint of glass on a steel table—hope. He didn’t quite believe it at first, crept towards it and gingerly reached out a hand as if it might run away, and then…

He found what he _wasn’t_ looking for.

The man—what was left of him—was at the far end of the room, seated, or rather, collapsed, against a desk piled high with diagrams. He was easy to miss, another bloody lump along with everything else, not quite natural in shape or movement—and yet, certainly still alive. He had twitched when Stan had crept across the room, this was how he had been spotted, twitched and slowly raised his head, a mess of shaggy grey and red, to turn one eye on him. Stan could see the man consider him for a moment, considering with that look of terrible resignation he had seen before—no, not quite. There was no conviction in it now, no hint of moral righteousness—a determination, perhaps, but an empty one.

Stan hated him, hated him truly, down to the very last fiber of his being, and yet he could not help but feel pity for a moment, seeing that broken look in that broken face, the shattered nose and twisted jaw and oh so much torn up flesh. The man had not bothered to let it heal, for certain—it looked almost as if he had been worrying it too, but perhaps Stan had really struck more terribly than he remembered, and this was nothing more than that. It shouldn’t have mattered to him anyway however—he wasn’t here for Ford, not if he wasn’t going to kill him, and he had immediately known he wouldn’t. Wouldn't perhaps because he still cared for him. Wouldn’t, perhaps, because he really hated him that much.

Ford’s gaze now turned to the object in Stan’s hands, his good eye widening as he understood. The man didn’t seem to object to the idea, though it perhaps would have been easier if he had—the last thing Stan wanted was to agree with a murderer, to have his endorsement. And yet…he still knew he had to do it, this lie, this deception. He had seen the horror in Mabel’s eyes, knew what she had looked upon, knew she couldn’t live with it If he could spare her from that…well, what wouldn’t he do? Even if it was wrong, a violation of the deepest self, an act without consent.

Stan held the memory gun in his hands for a second, then pocketed it and began to walk away. It would do the trick, he would simply tell her parents that she had forgotten him in her shock, that they should keep his existence secret. Perhaps one day she might find out, but by then the wounds would have had time to heal. Better to never have a brother, after all, than to lose one.

As he reached the door however, he heard a gurgle behind him, unintelligible, but enough like words that he turned to listen.

Ford was saying something, one eye still fixed upon him, straining his swollen jaw around the words that he wished to say. They came out butchered and broken, but this time Stan caught them. Advice, much needed, on how to erase what he wanted. A secret, a trust, Ford should have never been given.

“It’s not Dipper,” said the man. “It’s Mason.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EIPSE, EIPSE, TAV O CXAF,  
> DYMYWR VZTG AL HEJM UMNVG,  
> GDIWR GA KAZY YE OWGT HAG TGN,  
> DSG’E JMGG EAQ W UMD EM SGN,  
> A HBXD ZWZ U CGIYP SWH UUM XFRQ,  
> I LCYP HAA UQ WSG WGSL ZVWE ES,  
> NZD QSG TE KHVXL HIG GP S TVSHL,  
> PHF TWZY YE—OOF TE JSNXLQ FVSHL?


End file.
